Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Hey, Gilbey.’

  Tim looked up at the wheelhouse. Santos had a bottle of rum in his hand. ‘You like drink?’

  Tim made his way up the short ladder. There was no sign of the girl. Santos handed the bottle over. ‘Fifty Kwacha a glass.’

  Tim handed it back. ‘Don’t drink rum,’ he said pleasantly.

  Santos regarded him suspiciously. ‘Beer in galley. Fifty Kwacha each. Or I make you katembe. Same price.’

  ‘What’s katembe?’

  ‘Half red wine, half Coke. Is good. I name boat after it.’

  ‘I’ll stick to beer, thanks.’

  The price was highway robbery but there wasn’t much Tim could do about it. He went to the galley and found a beer. He also located the girl who was sullenly preparing a meal. ‘Hello,’ he said. But she ignored him and he returned to the wheelhouse.

  ‘You pay first.’

  Reluctantly, Tim handed the man fifty Kwacha. The captain belched, pocketed the money and made a show of studying the charts.

  ‘You want fuka fuka?’ he asked slyly.

  ‘No,’ Tim answered shortly.

  Santos scowled at him. ‘Cheapa cheapa. For you, two hundred Kwacha.’ He rubbed his hand over his stubbly chin. ‘Very clean girl.’

  ‘Look,’ Tim said conversationally. ‘I’ve said no, I mean no. Okay?’

  Santos looked knowingly at him. ‘You a sissy man? Bum fuka?’

  Tim carefully placed his bottle on the chart table, took two steps towards the captain, gathered up a fistful of overall and lifted the man off the floor. With his face just centimetres from the captain’s, he said calmly, ‘I’ve paid you to take me to Likoma. Shut the fuck up and do it. Do I make myself clear?’ He let the captain go.

  The man wasn’t expecting it and, although it wasn’t a long drop, landed heavily. ‘You breaka my leg,’ Santos yelled.

  ‘No,’ Tim said quietly. ‘But I’m always happy to oblige.’ He picked up his beer. ‘I’ll be on deck.’ He left the wheelhouse and the repulsive Captain Santos and found a quiet spot on the deck where, leaning over a rusted railing, he contemplated where such a sub-species might have originated. The man belonged under a rock.

  His mind drifted to Lana Devereaux. ‘I hope she’s all right,’ he thought. ‘I wish I could have spoken to her.’ He remembered Tony Davenport’s words about Karl Henning. He can say what he likes. Henning is trying to scare Lana off for reasons of his own, I’m positive of it.

  The captain began singing lustily. He had a surprisingly good voice. Tim tried to focus on the task at hand. Martin Flower had telephoned yesterday. ‘Word’s just come in – there’s some excitement in Argentina. Might be a coincidence, might not. I don’t care what excuses you have to give, you’ve got to get to Likoma before Hamilton.’

  Did Frederick Hamilton intend to retrieve the documents? Seems likely. Why? Because he’s suddenly nervous about leaving them on Likoma or because he’s found another buyer?

  Tim didn’t like Hamilton on principle. He had only been back in London for a few months after a gruelling four-year stint in Afghanistan. Anticipating a two-year home posting, he was halfway through renovations to his lounge and kitchen and just entering into a relationship with an enchanting and gifted graphic artist when Martin sent him to Malawi. As a result, his flat resembled a bomb-site and would have to stay that way until he returned. The graphic artist regretfully told Tim, ‘If we were further down the track I’d wait for you, but don’t count on it.’ Tim understood. She was far too attractive to sit alone, waiting for a man who might, or might not, become a fixture in her life.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of this business,’ he was thinking as he watched the heavily timbered shoreline slide past. Afghanistan had soured him. Politics didn’t care about people – real people suffering real hardships. Countries like Iran, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, indifferent to a decade of war which killed a million Afghans, began jockeying for position in the new government almost immediately the Soviets withdrew. The warring Mujaheddin groups, already divided for ethnic reasons, were encouraged to carry on the fight for freedom and peace. Under the guise of financial assistance, the different groups were armed. As a result, once beautiful and historical cities like Kabul, Qandahar and Herat were shelled beyond recognition. Tim himself had come under fire from the Uzbek in the north. All he had been doing was driving along the dead straight road between Kabul and the Uzbekistan border to meet a colleague. It seemed to Tim at the time that the Mujaheddin were dispassionately practising their rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and a moving target – any moving target – would do.

  Tim had joined the Foreign and Commonwealth Office driven by ideals formed at university. Now, after less than ten years in the field, those early illusions had given way to the realities of power and politics. He had a degree in Business Administration and Economics, spoke French, German and Russian fluently, Spanish and Italian not so fluently and Portuguese badly. Coming so quickly after the disillusionment of Afghanistan, the gamble being taken with Lana Devereaux’s life in the interests of national secrecy finally tipped the scales. Tim wanted out. But for now there was a job to do and do it he would, to the very best of his ability.

  It was getting dark. The deep throb of the trawler’s 340 horse power Cummins diesel engine was solid and steady though Tim would have liked to experience the total silence. The last of the sunset had stained the water pink. Bow waves creamed crisply behind, slapping together in the middle and flattening out, leaving an outraged ripple as evidence of the invasion. On the eastern shore, a large fire flared briefly – proof that mankind was out there, that Tim was not alone on this boat with a drunken lout of a captain and a sullen enslaved cook and concubine.

  ‘What of Lana?’ he thought, his mind wandering sideways again. He found it hard to recall the girl in London. Lana Devereaux’s deep blue eyes, her fierce determination, got in the way. He admired her courage but it was more than that. Like the fire on the shore, mutual attraction had flared bright for a moment. And, like the fire on the shore, it had died just as quickly. But it was still there, smouldering beneath the surface. He knew why Lana had backed off – he would have done the same. She was already on an emotional seesaw. And when she comes off it? When she came off it, Tim would be there – it was one of the few things he knew for certain.

  Night fell with the lack of subtlety that was so quintessentially African. Before Afghanistan, Tim had worked for three years in what was then Rhodesia. The no-nonsense approach of nature in that country always impressed him. Nothing coy or teasing about it. Nature was what it was. No apologies. Achingly beautiful one minute, deadly the next.

  His mind drifted again. It seemed to Tim that people were influenced by the forces of nature. Look at the Swiss. Their narrow-mindedness was legend. Was that because they lived in a country hemmed in by mountains? What about Australians? Was their personality broad and brash because their country was?

  The captain had forgone his haunting Arab song for something which sounded like an Irish sea-shanty. What forces formed a man like that? The song broke off suddenly and Santos bellowed, ‘Girl, where’s my food? Chakula pesi pesi!’

  The girl replied in her own language. Whether the captain understood or not Tim did not know. The man simply resumed his song.

  Tim went into the galley and helped himself to another beer. ‘Fifty Kwacha,’ Santos yelled from the doorway of the wheelhouse as Tim went back on deck.

  ‘Fifty Kwacha buys three beers, you old rogue, and even then you’re well into profit.’

  The captain muttered something and disappeared. Pretty soon he was bellowing out another song.

  Dinner was a delicately spiced stew of lake fish accompanied by a kind of wild spinach. The girl, having set the plate in front of him, took the captain his plate and stayed in the wheelhouse. Tim washed the meal down with yet another beer, called ‘Good night’, to the now silent Santos, and went to his cabin. He undressed quickly and, having placed his wallet an
d Browning automatic pistol under the pillow, rolled onto the narrow bunk and switched out the light. Within minutes he was lightly asleep, his senses dimmed but not out. If the captain decided to help himself to the cost of the two extra beers, he would be in for one hell of a shock.

  Eight hours later, as the first shards of light appeared in the eastern sky, Tim was wide awake. There was hot water in a curtained-off shower recess and the hand-pumped heads were surprisingly clean. Refreshed and ready for what the day would bring, Tim emerged on deck before the sun was truly risen. They were travelling close to the Mozambique shore. To the west, Malawi had all but disappeared. The air was crisp, almost cold. ‘You make coffee,’ Santos shouted to him. ‘Strong, black and sweet.’ He threw back his head and laughed heartily. ‘It is a beautiful day. I am in love.’

  The girl came down the steps and made her way towards the galley. To Tim’s surprise, she was smiling. The captain must have his good points after all. He greeted her and she responded. ‘Eh heh.’ He followed her into the galley. ‘You sit,’ she said. ‘Me fix coffee.’

  Santos was singing lustily again. The girl glanced up at the wheelhouse, shook her head, smiled and bustled around the galley as if she had been on the trawler all her life. ‘What a difference a night makes,’ Tim thought. But he was pleased for the girl. If Santos could bring about such a change in one night then her future may not be as bleak as it first appeared.

  The island of Likoma, and her more westerly little sister, Chisumulu, were visible from the trawler just before eight in the morning. Until then, with the backdrop of Mozambique behind them, they had been indistinguishable from the mainland. The tin roof of St Peter’s Anglican Cathedral dominated the larger island, reflecting the morning sun with almost painful ferocity. As they drew closer, the cathedral came into focus. It was an impressive sight, similar in size to Winchester Cathedral and built, as far as Tim could see, from granite. Stained glass windows glinted in the sunlight. As the Katembe rounded the point into the small harbour, villagers ran down onto the sandy beach, waving and shouting a greeting. Santos, brandishing another bottle of rum, waved and shouted back. He appeared to be immensely popular with the fishermen.

  ‘Here, Gilbey,’ Santos yelled. He was in excellent humour. ‘I promise Likoma. Here is Likoma.’ He looked over his shoulder and said something to the girl who had rejoined him, then called out to Tim. ‘Santos very happy you say no. If you say yes then Santos have to kill you.’

  Tim just shook his head and watched the view. The man was a little mad, a little bad, with no scruples and no redeeming features. But in that hard rock of a heart of his there must have been one small tender spot and the girl had found it. He wished them both well.

  The Katembe anchored in the little harbour. There was no wharf but a boat, loaded with men, immediately left the shore and headed towards the trawler. A tall black man wearing the white surplice of his calling stood at the stern, smiling.

  As they drew closer, Santos bellowed out a greeting. ‘Hey, Father. You marry me today.’

  The priest waved and smiled. ‘When you bring the same girl twice, Captain Santos, then I’ll marry you.’ The African’s English was impeccable. The boat drew alongside and the priest looked at Tim. ‘Who do you bring to our island today?’

  ‘Gilbey.’ Santos deftly caught the rope thrown and tied the boat fast. ‘This girl I love, Father.’

  The priest joined Santos on the deck. ‘Good. Bring her back next time.’ He was still looking at Tim. ‘What brings you here, Mr Gilbey?’

  Good question. I’m looking for secret documents. If necessary, I’ll kill someone for them. How does that grab you? ‘I’m new in Malawi. I’ve been told about Likoma. I wanted to see it,’ Tim lied with no discernible prick of conscience.

  ‘What is your occupation, Mr Gilbey?’ The priest had shrewd eyes.

  ‘I am the Commercial Attache at the British High Commission.’ Tim held up both hands. ‘I know, I’m a little out of my way but I’ve read about this place and was determined to see it. The opportunity came along and . . . well . . . here I am.’

  ‘Welcome then, Mr Gilbey. We are a small community, as you will see. I hope your visit will be worth it.’

  ‘Off,’ Santos suddenly bellowed. ‘You get off. Crew here, I go.’

  ‘Don’t mind the captain.’ The priest smiled at Tim. ‘His English leaves a little to be desired, his manners are atrocious and his personality could do with a little work but he’s a good fellow at heart. The wages he pays bring much-needed money into our community.’

  ‘Your English is excellent,’ Tim commented.

  ‘Thank you. The island has one hundred per cent literacy. The early missionaries built schools here. It is an honourable legacy is it not?’

  ‘What is here other than the cathedral?’

  ‘A few shops. Several small villages. A hospital, post office, community entertainment centre, three schools and a couple of rest houses.’ The priest pointed to a building which perched, like an eagle in a tree, on top of a hill. ‘The police post.’

  ‘Perhaps you could recommend somewhere to stay? If you’ll just hang on I’ll get my bag.’

  Tim went below and grabbed his rucksack. Santos was on deck speaking to the fishermen. When Tim said goodbye the only response the captain gave was, ‘Yeah.’ Tim joined the priest in the boat.

  ‘I am Father Smice by the way,’ the priest said, holding out his hand.

  Tim shook it. ‘My name is Tim,’ he said.

  ‘Tim.’ The priest squinted at him. ‘Timothy. A very worthy name. Did you know it is Greek? It means “honouring God”.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t mind me. It’s a hobby of mine.’

  The boat deposited them right up onto the beach. Father Smice pointed to a low, tin-roofed building just in front of the cathedral. ‘Akuziki Private Rest House. You can stay there for forty Kwacha a single per night. They do meals, or you can buy food from the little shop next door.’

  Tim looked at it doubtfully. It was smack in the middle of a small marketplace. He had hoped for something a little less public.

  Father Smice took his arm and pointed to a cove further along the shore. ‘Wilderness Safaris have just put up a tented camp behind that line of trees. Camp Likoma. It’s more expensive but the food is good. If you go there, tell the manager I sent you.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  ‘How long will you be staying, Mr Gilbey?’

  ‘Couple of days,’ Tim said evasively. ‘I’d like to see Chisumulu too.’ He looked around. The island did not have the lush, tropical island look he would have expected. ‘Not many trees close to shore are there?’ he commented.

  ‘We have plantations on the far side. Alas, it will be some years before they can be harvested.’ He indicated smoke rising from behind a couple of large baobab trees back from the edge of the beach. ‘That’s why. The people use wood in their kilns for smoking fish.’ Father Smice turned and faced Tim squarely. ‘I don’t wish to appear rude, Mr Gilbey, but I’d like to ask you a fairly direct question. We hear rumours that a tourist lodge is to be built on the island. Can you tell me if this is so?’

  Tim did his best to look mysterious.

  ‘Ah, quite so, Mr Gilbey. You are not at liberty to say. Forgive my question – it is asked with the best interests of the islanders at heart.’

  Tim lowered his voice. ‘I will tell you only this, Father. I will be having a very good look at the island. I cannot say any more.’

  ‘Of course.’ The priest could not keep the joy from his voice. ‘It would be a very good thing for our small community.’ He turned to go. ‘Come to Evening Service while you are here. We would be honoured to receive you.’ He strode away, a tall imposing figure in white. Tim watched him go, his conscience very busy with its pitchfork on his shoulder.

  He made his way towards the tented camp. It sat on a slight rise in the land, overlooking the harbour. Permanent tents had been erected over cement slabs and each had a wooden deck in the front giv
ing uninterrupted views of several bays, a couple of small islands and the Mozambique mainland. At the back, accessed through a breezeway, each tent had its own private bathroom and toilet. The manager was delighted to book him in and overjoyed that he was staying more than one night. They could provide him with breakfast and dinner, the former at 6.30a.m., the latter at 5.00p.m. ‘We have no electricity,’ the manager told him in the same oddly formal English as Father Smice. ‘That is why you must take your meal early.’

  Tim assured him it would be fine, asked if there was a map of Likoma, smiled and said it didn’t matter that there wasn’t and, having dumped his rucksack in his luxurious tent, told the manager he was off to explore the island.

  ‘Do you like scuba diving?’ the man asked. ‘We have some of the best on the lake.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Tim replied. He noticed that equipment was available for hire on request.

  ‘If you want to see the island better you must climb up Macholo. It is the highest point. You will like the view.’

  Tim thanked him for the advice.

  ‘You have to see the cathedral too. It’s very beautiful.’ The man’s pride was evident. ‘The choir stalls have been made from soapstone.’

  ‘I do want to see the cathedral.’ Tim took advantage of the manager’s willingness to talk. ‘How many priests work there now?’

  ‘Not as many as we would like. I don’t know exactly. Some are not priests, they are missionaries and doctors.’